


Molten

by Ericine



Series: Lush [10]
Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Bruise Play, Communiation, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Returning Home, War, chain of command
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2017-10-12
Packaged: 2019-01-16 09:06:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12339660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ericine/pseuds/Ericine
Summary: Beverly’s good at this - filtering out and clamping down on a feeling, setting it aside for later. It’s a hard-won skill and one that would perhaps be unhealthy if she hadn’t learned to be gentle with herself. Yet this is a whole new side to that quality.





	Molten

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Leyenn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leyenn/gifts).



> Ok, so this isn't self-harmy, but I think maybe it might evoke those feelings, so proceed with caution.
> 
> Tbh, I don't really write kinky stuff, so be gentle! But it's the least I can do for someone who's been pulling off a helluva Kinktober month!
> 
> Also, this takes place as the same universe that Through Different Light does. Playing around with linking the two stories so that's a little more obvious.

At the end of their shift, she leaves the Captain alone for now. He needs rest, and they’re not going to be able to begin unraveling any of what the Cardassian torturers did to his mind until he has a good night of sleep. On her recommendation, combined with Beverly’s, he takes takes a sleep aid before he retires. She’s hoping he’s tired enough to sleep through the night without remembering his dreams. She also knows - maybe better than anyone - how unpredictable dreams can be. But he needs rest.

They all need rest.

She’s been doing pretty well herself. The crew’s agitation over the uncertainty of the past few days prickles in her mind like the beginnings of pins and needles, but she hasn’t felt the need to take a break yet. Her fatigue now is almost purely physical, her body paying its debt it owes from its stress cycle.

She wants to get into bed and stay there - whether or not she takes off her uniform is purely circumstance (that might not be the tiredness talking - she has always loved the way the Starfleet blue looks on her, and a small part of having to wear it now feels right, like settling into a second skin that she didn’t know she was missing), but she catches Beverly in the turbolift, and there’s something in the way  moving and in the way that she’s struggling with her feelings that finds Deanna following her to her room.

Beverly doesn’t protest - beyond acknowledging her with a look, she just keeps walking - and Deanna wonders for a moment if she’d meant for this to happen. It’s so interesting - she and Will have a two-way channel with each other, to where she knows his mind as well - if not better - than he knows his own. But she and Beverly don’t have that. They have touching and attentiveness and - strangely enough - communication that still has achieved a degree of wordlessness all the same.

They’ve let Beverly keep the two-bedroom family quarters, though Wesley hasn’t been here in a long time - longer than it should feel like, at least. Deanna takes her place on the couch, and Beverly shakes her head.

“No,” she says, determined, decisive, and there’s something dark in there that makes Deanna let down her shields a little more, because it’s a strange tint to the swirl Beverly’s emotions are in right now. “My room. I want to show you something.”

Deanna tries to keep quiet her sharp intake of breath, because there’s _definitely_ an undercurrent of desire there, a kind she’s never felt from Beverly before. It feels different, a little bit like trust wrapped in desperation, a need to be somewhere _out_ and _other_.

And pain. Beverly’s hurting. Of course she’s hurting. They’re all traumatized by what’s happened. They don’t know what she knows about the Captain, but they’re still all shaken. Also, she, Will, and Beverly have just gotten to the point where they can all sleep in the same bed again after having their minds violated. There’s a piece here she’s missing.

She obeys, sits down on the edge of Beverly’s bed, slides her shoes off, and pulls her feet up to cross them under her.

Beverly stares her straight in the eye and pulls the zipper of her uniform down.

Deanna gasps and doesn’t try to hide it. Beverly isn’t wearing anything under her uniform except for the standard-issue grey Starfleet underwear, but the grey doesn’t stop across her breasts. As Beverly pulls the uniform down and completely off, Deanna sees - grey, purple, black, blue. Bruises splotched across the taller woman’s upper arms and shins. There’s a nasty one, big, on top of one of her thighs, and there’s another nebula of color over the opposite hip, stretching up and around - Deanna’s guessing her back.

As if she’d heard her, Beverly turns around, and Deanna sees that the bruise does indeed wrap around. It splotches upward diagonally, and there’s another set of marks on the back of one of her calves.

Beverly slides off her bra, and Deanna wouldn’t need to be empathic to see how much that hurts her. “There was a cave-in,” Beverly says simply.

“You didn’t regenerate any of it,” Deanna replies, astonished.

“It doesn’t feel right, having something like this happen and there being no reminder that it did.” She turns back around, brusque, only wearing her boxer-briefs now, and Deanna wonders how much of the dull pain she was sensing was a reaction to physical pain and how much is emotional. “It’ll heal soon enough, though I unnecessarily concerned Alyssa.”

For a moment, though, Deanna’s concern flares. She’s seen Beverly’s body several times now and doesn’t remember ever seeing it like this. “How often do you do this?”

Beverly laughs, half out of care for Deanna and half-hollow. “How often do I get called on reconnaissance missions where I end up almost buried under rocks? Not often.” She sighs. “And when I’m injured, I regenerate. I just haven’t had anyone to um, do this with in a while.”

She doesn’t know why, but she wants to reach out and touch one of those blooming spots. “Do what?”

Again, like she’s heard her, Beverly steps forward, takes Deanna’s hand, and lays it on top of the bruise on her hip, the darkest of all of her marks. “If you don’t have a regenerator, how do you treat a bruise?”

Deanna lets her hand rest as gently on the skin as possible without pressure. It’s basic first aid; she could answer the question in her sleep. It’s still surreal, her hand on top of the blood blooming under the surface. “Elevation, cold - though I guess you’d be past that part by now--” Had Beverly really been walking around the ship with this for days? “--so, um, heat - and pressure.”

Beverly squeezes her hand on her hip, and they wince together at the dull pain. But there’s something else there - a rush. Trust and desperation and _closer to home_.

 _Oh_.

Beverly’s good at this - filtering out and clamping down on a feeling, setting it aside for later. It’s a hard-won skill and one that would perhaps be unhealthy if she hadn’t learned to be gentle with herself. Yet this is a whole new side to that quality.

“I need this. Could you, please?” Beverly’s been present when she’s done things like this before, but she rarely participates, and she’s never asked for it.

Deanna reaches up with her free hand, and pulls Beverly’s face to hers for a kiss that she hopes conveys all of the understanding and the compassion she has for her in that moment. “Lie down,” she says against her mouth. And _gods,_ Beverly _shivers_ at that - anticipation and the relief of a tiny fear that she had that Deanna would reject her ( _oh, Beverly_ \- Deanna sets that aside for later). Her arms are still sore, so she lies down carefully on her stomach, and - because she somehow knows she has to - Deanna unzips her own uniform, letting it join Beverly’s on the floor.

She straddles Beverly’s hips - little pain, little rush, and Beverly makes a small sound where she’s lying on the pillow with her head to the side. “You feel lovely,” Deanna tells her, and begins to knead her muscles, starting from the tops of her shoulders down.

Beverly moans there, because where there isn’t a bruise, there’s a muscle that’s been pushed and pushed and pushed over the past few weeks. It’s all there, laid out for Deanna to feel - warmth and pleasure, decreasing loneliness, pain and desperation - soothing pain with more pain. Pursing her lips, she works her way down each of Beverly’s arms, then her lower back.

Her friend - her best friend, because she’s pretty sure she and Bev will always be, no matter what they are to each other otherwise - is some variation on the theme of sun-fire, always has been. A campfire popping and sparking when she’s angry or agitated. Rain watering a thirsty field golden-lit by sunrise when she’s happy. Underneath, she’s always bubbling and burning, a volatile star doing exactly what it should. Now, she’s molten under Deanna’s hands - so quietly erotic even as her emotions stream out into the room around them, where she knows Deanna’s the only person who can hear.

Deanna’s on her feet now, and, like in most massages with humans, Beverly’s mind’s in a place not unlike the first few stages of falling asleep. “Turn over?”

She obeys, wincing as she does, that perfect hair of hers fanning out behind her like something resplendent and precious.

Deanna heats her hands against her own Betazoid-warm skin and goes bottom-to-top this time, beginning with her feet again and rising to her shins. The front is more sensitive than the back, and Beverly whimpers as she touches each new spot, biting her lip hard. Deanna gets to her hip, and Beverly almost yelps, mouth closed.

“Deanna,” she almost moans, and Deanna’s suddenly very glad she’s perched between Beverly’s legs, because _gods,_ it’s so sexy, this much abandon.

“Stop?” She almost stills her hands, and Beverly jerks her hip back up into them.

“No, just talk me through it. Please don’t stop.”

Deanna keeps working the hip with her thumbs, pain radiating into her mind. Beverly wants reassurance, so she’ll give it. “You were so brave,” she tells her. “That command call you made was hard. You got Worf back here safely, and your report was the reason why we knew what was wrong.” Beverly nods her head in response, a little uneasy - well, they all know that even the right call keeps them awake at night. She’s not necessarily blaming herself, but she still feels terrible. “You’re so brave to come to me with this, to show me this.” She slides her hand along her friend-lover’s side, a raincloud across the sun, then pauses.

She lets Beverly’s stiff nod tell her to keep going.

“How long has it been since someone cared for you like this?” Deanna murmurs, hands traveling up her sides, trying to keep the breathlessness out of her voice. She wasn’t sure about it before, but Beverly solidly _wants_ now, wants her, and if that wasn’t any indication, then the way that she’s squirming, bucking her hips just a little bit, definitely is. After all that she’s gone through, she’s still found it in her to come to her with something like this, even though she was fairly certain she wouldn’t get it.

Ah well, they’ve turned in early. They have time.

She presses her lips briefly to the bruise across Beverly’s ribs, just under the underside of the breast. “How long has it been since someone did this for you?” (The answer to that is _too long_ , like it is with a lot of other questions in Beverly’s life.)

She’s past her arms now, on her collarbones, which aren’t bruised but look so gorgeously inviting - it’s only fair she gives them the same kind of attention.

Meanwhile, Beverly’s about to burst into - something. “Deanna,” she whispers, and urgency floods Deanna’s senses. “Deanna _please--”_

“Please what?” Deanna asks gently, lifting one hand to Beverly’s throat. She strokes there, up, then down between her breasts. “Please stop?”

Beverly wraps her arms around herself. “Hm? No. Touch me, please touch me--it feels so good.”

Deanna shifts at that point, settling herself to the side, and Beverly’s relief at the absence of pressure on her skin for the first time in an hour washes over her. Deanna kisses her breathless, long and deep, until she’s wound up even tighter than she is already, and then she slides her hand between her legs and hums low when her fingers find slickness. “You’re so wet,” Deanna says, nipping Beverly’s earlobe. “I want you so much. I love that you want me to do this for you.”

Beverly moans, grinds against Deanna’s fingers, and Deanna slips in then, finding that one spot, hooking her hand around so that she hits her clit with each flick of her wrist. It doesn’t take very long - Beverly comes, crying out, turning her head to Deanna’s so they’re forehead to forehead as she shakes around her.

Deanna bites her lip - it's hard not to get caught up in this: Beverly's pleasure, the bit of catharsis she's received from every bit of pain they've rubbed into her together, the trust she has in Deanna to listen to her speak through a language that she wasn't sure she'd understand.

 _Pain_ \- it’s a little too sensitive now. Deanna withdraws her hand and licks her fingers while Beverly watches, blushing, almost giggling. She moves her own hand down, and Deanna stops her. “Later,” she says kindly. They’re both on the verge of passing out.

Beverly nods, brings the hand to Deanna’s jaw and kisses her - gratitude, understanding - and nuzzles her cheek. “You’re always listening, even when I can’t speak.”

“Words are not always necessary when it’s you,” Deanna says, and kisses her. It occurs to her for a moment that things could have ended very differently and she perhaps may have never kissed her again.

She can’t think that way. There’s too much at stake all the time in their line of work. Especially now.

Beverly rolls over on her back with none of the difficulty she had before. “Look what you’ve done,” she chuckles, poking at a watercolored spot on her arm. “I’m so high that I can’t feel them right now.” They settle into their usual cuddling position, when it’s the two of them - Deanna’s chin above Beverly’s shoulder, curled into her side. “This thing with the Cardassians, it’s going to be bad. Very bad,” she says, when Deanna looks at her questioningly. “And it’s going to get worse before it gets better.”

“You think?”

“You don’t have a feeling about the whole thing?” Beverly asks. “I just--” She moves her hand around her stomach. “--this isn’t going to end well.”

Any kind of reassurance for that sounds insincere, and it wouldn’t work anyway. So Deanna takes her hand and interlaces their fingers. “I’m glad you’re home,” she tells her instead, and that seems to make her content enough, enough to begin slipping off toward sleep.

“I’m glad to be home,” Beverly answers, and maybe because she knows Deanna’s still a little wary about where she can touch, plants Deanna’s arm firmly around her. “Maybe I’ll treat it tomorrow.”

“You don’t have to.”

Almost giddy, Beverly kisses the tip of her nose, then sobers a little. “Are you okay?”

Deanna thinks about four lights in a mind that’s gone dark. “I’m better now,” she tells her truthfully, and Beverly frowns at that, puts her hand over Deanna’s heart, somehow manages to inch in even closer.

Beverly doesn’t ask Alyssa to fix it, and it’s weeks before they’re completely gone. Deanna spends those nights in this bed.


End file.
